


snake eyes

by gentyjack



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eyes, M/M, Raphael!Crowley, you fucked up a perfectly good snake is what you did look at him he's got anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentyjack/pseuds/gentyjack
Summary: "In gambling in general and the game of craps in particular, snake eyes is the outcome of rolling the dice in a game and getting only one pipon each die. The pair of pips resembles a pair of eyes, which is appended to the word snake because of the creature's long-standing association with treachery and betrayal."Crowley's 6000 year relationship with his eyes.





	snake eyes

**Author's Note:**

> hello it's gent back three years later with another "reflective piece about someone dealing with Emotions tied to a specific item." apparently there's a market for that.

Before the beginning, there was nothing.

That word could be considered a stretch; as when there is no _everything_ to compare it to, calling the blank slate that would become the universe “nothing” would not be quite apropos. Nothing is such an abstract _human_ word, and humans were still five long days away.[1]

However, for eases sake, we will continue to call what lies before us “nothing.” Or at least, almost nothing. For before the light, the darkness, _everything_ came into being, the angels had existed. Aides to The Almighty, spreading Her influence and love across the far expanses of the would-be universe.

Raphael had beautiful eyes. One could assume that they could be compared to the warm golden light of a sunset, or freshly bloomed marigolds. But as these things were not invented yet, one had to settle for adjectives: bold, bright, and effervescent. The archangel’s eyes held the Love that he held for this soon-to-be universe, as he created star after star, nebula after nebula. It was fitting for the Patron of Love and Healing to have eyes that would betray his feelings so.

The Almighty would preach love and reverence to all Creations, and Raphael hung by Her every word. Everything that came into being by his own hand, whether it breathe or no, his eyes would sparkle with sheer compassion for. Fellow archangels showed their adoration for their creations in unique ways: Michael would sigh with contentment, Gabriel released a soft chuckle. But for Raphael, it was all in his bold, bright, and effervescent eyes.

Eyes that made his pain and worry manifest ever too close to the surface, as the extent of the Great Plan was revealed to him. These beautiful creations, great and small, living and not, would inevitably be tested to their own destruction. These beings, once carefully crafted with care, would now be forced to suffer by their hands. _There shall be a world and it shall last for six thousand years and end in fire and flame._

A barely audible question escaped his lips, though all one would need to do is to look into Raphael’s eyes to hear the word like he had shouted it. “Why?”

The cherubim, seraphim, archangels, _all_ looked warily at him. Why? It is the Great Plan, the order of this new universe. Who was he to question Her? It is written. Still, Raphael could not help himself, his mouth spilling words as his eyes threatened to spill with tears of empathy.

“We were told to have love and reverence for all things! Was that a lie? Are we being forced to sit and watch as everything destroys itself?” Raphael was shouting now, suddenly feeling very alone and very afraid. The other angels looked on in what could almost be described as disgust.

Who was he to question Her?

It is written.

* * *

He remembers his fall vividly. There was a sharp twinge of emptiness, as he felt something being ripped away from him.[2] Oh, and the burning, how it had burned. Delicate and intricate white wings, catching more and more as he fell further down. The tips charred, leaving behind an inky black substance in their wake. They could hardly be called wings anymore; after all, with wings he could fly, whatever these were could only fall.

But his eyes, his eyes were what burned the most. The eyes that had shared his compassion, his reverence, what he had thought he had been taught. Now the heels of his hands ground into them, wishing (perhaps even praying) for that searing white hotness to leave them. No such luck, they continued to smolder. Soon the warm gold burned away to bright yellow, a shade that a child would be afraid to see peeking out of their closet in a waking nightmare. His pupils, which had once stared into the light with hope and optimism, forced themselves to narrow. The light was too much for him, he couldn’t gaze into its once sacred depths.

And he burned, oh how he burned. Hoarse screaming erupted from his throat, as he fell with no end in sight. Angels can only die through certain means, but Raphael considered if this would kill him…and almost wished that it would. The scorching hot pain gripped him at all sides, but its tightest grip was on his heart. _I just wanted to know why._

Eventually the fall would lead to a collision. And when Raphael came as close to his senses as he could to get a look at himself, a different face stared back at him. Features gaunt, cheekbones dangerously high, blackened wings with still blistering tips. But his eyes, they were what caused him the most of his grief. Luminescent yellow eyes bore holes into his reflection, slitted pupils taking in as little of the light as possible.

Snake Eyes.

A future version of him would consider this a fitting karmic punishment. After all, snakes were commonly associated now with treachery and betrayal.

But it was _he_ who had been betrayed.

* * *

He had fully taken the form of the serpent when he had tempted Eve. Go up there and cause some trouble, said his fellow fallen, ones who had once been angelic coworkers made for rather ineloquent bosses. The fire still burned within him, though less of a physical ache, and more of a deep seeded rage that threatened to boil over with the passing of not-yet-existent time. His angelic and demonic[3] sides fought, though neither side was especially clear of the reason they were locked in constant battle. Both argued for different reasons, but it all blended into one coherent thought. Free will. Choice. He was never given it, this thing that is both angelic and demonic at once.

His non-blinking serpentine eyes stared into Eve, as he goaded her into taking a bite of the forbidden fruit, gazing deeply into her soul and waiting for her to make her choice. As hesitant lips touched the surface of the apple’s skin, the fallen angel figured he should come up with a name for himself. After all, his angelic designation hardly seemed to fit anymore.

He decided on the name Crawley, evoking images of creatures making sinuous circles around their prey, cunning and calculating. He hated the name.

How fitting.

* * *

“I said: that went down like a lead balloon,” Crawley repeated to the bewildered angel next to him. Blue eyes stared back at him…or were they green? Somehow they managed to shift between the two colors seamlessly, not unlike the waves of the newly formed ocean. The angel cleared his throat.

“Um yes, well….rather….um….?” he paused, an invitation for the demon to introduce himself. It hadn’t been long since he had been an angel and he remembered this one. Aziraphale, a Principality, one tier above him in the glorious hierarchy. It wasn’t a stretch to think he wouldn’t remember him.

“Crawley,” he responded, unaware if the bitterness in his mouth after saying his new given name was due to his feelings on the matter or the venom that filled his canine teeth not moments before. The conversation continued amicably, Crawley questioning Her divine will, as he was prone to do. The angel muttered something about “ineffable,” and he bit down the humorless chuckle that almost escaped him. Ineffable. This one would be just like the others. He changed the subject swiftly, losing interest in unquestioning loyalty of the other man beside him. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

The angel sputtered a bit, taken aback at the shift in their conversation, almost embarrassed with what he was about to answer. Still, Crawley prodded. “You did! It was flaming like anything, what happened to it?” A soft admission broke free of the angel’s lips.

“I gave it away.”

Crawley stared incredulously. “You _what_?” The angel repeated his confession, fully turning to face him with those blue (green) honest eyes. He prattled on about how the woman was expecting and how it was dangerous and so on; however Crawley couldn’t tear his gaze from the angel’s eyes. Bold, bright, and effervescent. He should’ve felt envious, despairing about what he had lost. Yet his own eyes betrayed him again, softening his sharp angles, showing a feeling he long thought he had lost.[4]

Old habits die hard.

* * *

He would come to repeat that mantra as the years shifted to decades and centuries. At first he had no issue keeping his eyes in the open, as they were a symbol. A symbol of his loss of faith. Still, it made it rather hard to keep up appearances with the humans. He at first supposed that whatever demonic shape-shifting abilities had been “granted” to him post-fall would help to disguise them, however they were stubborn bastards. His scales could be covered with softer human skin, his fangs could recede further into his gums. His eyes, however…the best he could do was turn the all-encompassing yellow reduce itself to an iris. But the pupil inflexibly remained. Hardly noticeable at all, if he kept his distance.

Alas, old habits die hard.

It came to him as a distant shout, followed by soft hiccupping sobs. Gaze following the noise, it fell upon the crestfallen face of a young wife. Beneath her, a man had collapsed, sweat adorning his forehead and pustules covering his body like small mountains. Crawley sighed; Pestilence had been at work again here.

If it were any other demon, they would’ve continued on their merry way, perhaps even cracking a small smile at the sight of the suffering. But Crawley had been a healer…even if it seemed millennia ago. His angelic side, long thought dormant, forced his legs forward, as he placed a hand on the young man. Slowly, carefully, boils began to recede, the temperature cooled. The higher-ups never seemed to check, what’s _one_ miracle. He heard a sharp gasp beside him. The man’s wife was positively beaming with light. If Crawley had turned to look at her, he was certain he would’ve been blinded.

All hope and happiness faded immediately as she took a good look at him. She noticed his eyes, the unnatural glow and thin stare the pupils gave her ailing husband. The woman grabbed him swiftly, her own eyes conveying her fear perfectly. She began to shout in a language the demon couldn’t quite understand yet, though he gathered that she was none too happy about the dark miracle he had just performed. Was it that she thought there was to be some sort of catch? Did she consider him a witch of some sort? Or a monster? He reached out to her; he wasn’t finished, if he could only have a couple more minutes then he would be fully healed she would have nothing to worry about. But they were gone, lost to a sea of sand and dust.

Eight years later, tinted glasses were made, and he jumped at them.

* * *

Aziraphale had always looked at him strangely when he wore his tinted glasses, though Crowley[5] could hardly imagine why. After all he quite fancied them, thought that they made him look distinguished. And if he couldn’t change his eyes well enough to blend in, then these were the perfect compromise.

But the angel always gave him that pointed look, that tutting scrutiny that he was dissatisfied with something, not unlike the look he gave a meal that had to be politely (yet firmly) sent back for being overdone. The demon ignored these pointed gazes, part of it being a petty need to irritate the angel, another part (though he would never admit it) being he wasn’t quite ready to let him see underneath. Not after his eyes betrayed him more than he could count.

Throughout the millennia, tinted glasses got bigger, darker, further hiding what lay beneath. When questioned, either by Aziraphale or his fellow demons, he would mumble an excuse that he was sensitive to bright lights, which was not entirely wrong. This didn’t easily explain away why he continued to wear them in the deepest pits of hell, where lightly clearly was no issue to him.

For questions like that he would need to continue to go down his excuse list, which was as follows:

  1. They looked cool
  2. It was a great way to blend in with the humans
  3. They infuriated his angel ~~friend~~ adversary
  4. Snakes were prone to UV sensitivity
  5. He was absolutely terrified of being judged
  6. The act of being judged overwhelmed him with this overarching sense of guilt and loneliness.



He usually left the last two out.

Despite his excuses, the glasses would come up as a side-subject for a number of nasty rows throughout the decades Crowley and Aziraphale had known each other. It was inevitable, two beings of opposite sides, differing opinions tend to seep out of the woodwork.

It was 1862, centuries after coming up with The Arrangement, they were having their worst row yet. It started with a simple request, insurance, in the event that something should go wrong. But the angel had taken it completely the wrong way, shouting at him about “suicide pills” and “it could destroy you.” Though he couldn’t deny that there was a small part of him that thought that was exactly the use for such a sacred object, it was mostly meant as a means of protection. For both of them. A failsafe, not unlike the glasses on his face.

Aziraphale had stormed off, but Crowley (always wanting to have the last word) managed to find his way to his bookshop anyway for the “and another thing!” continuation of their argument. Voices raised loud enough to be heard throughout the streets of Soho, all culminating to a head when the angel pointed a finger dangerously close to his face.

“And will you take those bloody things off! I can never tell what you’re really thinking with them on!” And in a flash they were off, removed by Aziraphale’s swift and trembling hand. Crowley’s hands were trembling as well, though not due to anger like the angel’s.

It was fear.

All of the ire drained from Aziraphale’s face at the sight of Crowley, replaced with something else. Pity. These blasted eyes, reminder to everyone that he was of the fallen, that he asked too many questions, that he was cast out and abandoned. With a forceful shove, Crowley snatched the glasses back and fixed them pointedly to his face.

“There. Happy now.” The response was curt, full of venom, even if it could just barely cut through the distress in his tone. He wasn’t supposed to see, no one was supposed to see. His eyes exposed him again, showed his emotions running rampantly through the yellow fields of his irises: fear, anger, bitterness, longing, betrayal….. _love_.

He left without another word. They didn’t speak again until 1941.

* * *

The year was 1967, and Anthony J. Crowley was staring at himself in a mirror, glaring at his reflection as if to intimidate it. He was a flurry of emotions yet again, and he couldn’t pinpoint which one was the dominant one.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” Anger perked up, making his irises shine like a sudden spark. Too fast? How could he possibly be too fast? They have known each other for this long and he was “too fast”? The absolute nerve of that angel.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” The flame burned out, now fully showing how tired his eyes looked. Of course he would say something along those lines, why bother and hope…they are hereditary enemies.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” The softness that he held at the very beginning returned, a rare sight except for the most intimate of moments. When Aziraphale would smile at him so, or when he would be bathed in just the right amount of light while reading. It was a look reserved specifically for him, too open and too vulnerable for him to bear.

He didn’t cry. He wasn’t sure he could anymore.

* * *

They were drunk. It was one of the few advantages of having a body similar to a mortal’s, a few glasses of wine and your mind was encased in a soft, billowy fog. It was a relaxing way to pass the time and he was sure if it wasn’t for the health risks the humans would be doing it more often.

It was always more fun to get drunk with Aziraphale, conversations launching into waxing philosophical, which slowly turned into impish giggling as the fog in their brains made thinking far too difficult.

“Y’see the point is,” he struggled to think of one, but his mouth was far ahead of his brain and shouted out the first thing to come to mind. “Cockroaches. Damn things can survive a nuclear apocalypse, what sort of steroids got put into ‘em?”Aziraphale laughed heartily at the strange twist in their discussion, what had brought this on?[6] “You laugh now, angel, but when Armageddon happens, these buggers will be the ones that triumph over everything. Th’humans’ll be dead, but I for one….respect’r new cockroach overlords.” By this point, Aziraphale is almost falling out of his chair with laughter, spilling what was left of his wine on the tartan chair cover (nothing a quick miracle couldn’t clean up).

As his face began to soften at the sight, Crowley gave a silent word of thanks to his sunglasses again. The look reserved for the angel, _his_ angel, wasn’t for him to see…not if he wasn’t ready. Old habits continued to die hard.

He would soon be snapped out of his reverie by a face dangerously close to his, blushing red at the tip of his nose and cheekbones. The demon could not be certain that the dusting of red was due to the alcohol or something else entirely, but it was causing him to sober up at an alarming pace. “Um…..can I help you?” Firm and steady hands cupped the sides of his face, fingertips brushing underneath the temples of his frame, until he couldn’t feel them anymore. Nothing was on his face, not Aziraphale’s soft touch…or his sunglasses.

“There now, that’s better,” Aziraphale said almost absentmindedly. “You really should show your eyes more, my dear. They are quite beautiful.” If Crowley’s pupils had the capability to grow bigger, they would probably be covering the irises by now.

“I’m sorry what?” He hadn’t intended on his voice cracking at his response, but his body continued to make obvious what he was trying to hide for centuries. Aziraphale turned to gaze back at him, his green/blue everchanging eyes fixing him with a soft shine. The blush had receded somewhat, the sharp red fading to subdued pink. The alcohol must be drained from his system, replacing it with….the other thing. It told him all he needed to know.

“They’re just so….bright? Bold? ….positively effervescent, dear,” he listed, casually circling his hand through the air as if searching for more adjectives. And as he didn’t continue, it would seem he settled just for those. “Much like you.” The smallest of smiles graced his lips, finally returning a look that had once been reserved only for him. It was fleeting, but it was there, as bright as the shining sun. Aziraphale turned towards the kitchen, eager to make a cup of tea for the both of them while this was being sorted out.

And for the first time in millennia, Raphael’s golden eyes shed tears of compassion.

[1] These five days would not be of the typical twenty-four hours that we are used to now. For how does time progress steadily and consistently if it has not fully come into being yet?

[2] His ideas of what that was would change as the years went by. Divinity, purity, power. He supposed it should’ve been obvious that the true answer was unconditional love.

[3] Demonic. Hardly a day had passed, and the heavens already had a name for the newly fallen.

[4] It would take him several more decades to admit to himself what that feeling was.

[5] By this point some of his unnecessary self-loathing had tapered off, and he decided to change his name to something decidedly less “squirming-at-your-feet”ish.

[6] Alcohol, probably

**Author's Note:**

> one day I will write something that's not hurt/comfort but today is not that day. pls like comment and subscribe


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